Any Regrets?
by Mooncheese
Summary: Years after being rescued, Jack attempts to find peace in a bar. Why will looking at a map dredge up such painful memories, and what do Samneric have to do with it? Summary G rated.


The Green Arms was a smallish pub, not very popular at the best of times. It stood on the edge of an ordinary street which had once been very popular. Now most of the shops had shut down, and the only signs of life were the rats that dodged nimbly from one side of the road to the other.

The pub was still open for business, however, as Jack knew full well. That was why he stopped in that day, young head heavy with swirling thoughts usually only thought by old men. With one, tired hand he clicked his fingers; clicked for the sleeping barman's attention.

The barman's only reply was to roll over, snoring loudly.

Jack gave a tiny sigh, running a wary eye over the handful of people in the gloomy room. They consisted of a tight knot of women smoking some foul smelling cigarettes, a haggard old man hunched over a drink at the bar and a couple of suspiciously young looking teenagers sitting at a table. After staring pointedly at the young boys until they started to fidget nervously, he strode up the counter, glanced at the barman and sat down without a word.

The man at the counter shifted slightly, but didn't look up. This didn't bother Jack; he wasn't here to socialise.

What he was here for though, well, he just didn't know.

Blankly he gazed up at the grimy picture on the wall opposite him. It depicted an old, yellowing map of the world. It was a very large map, large enough for him to see clearly America, Russia and Britain from where he sat. There were smaller specks there as well, and these he presumed were the smaller islands no-one ever bothered learning about in Geography.

He sniffed, and with a sudden impulsive action pulled back his sleeve, holding his forearm up to the light. Though the dusky lamplight was poor, he could still see the long, thin scar running almost the length of his arm, a permanent reminder.

Like it was yesterday, someone's voice echoed back to him.

"_My father's in the Navy. He said there aren't any unknown islands left. He says the Queen has a big room full of maps and all the islands of the world are drawn there. So the Queen's got a picture of this island."_

He cocked a brow at the picture. A sudden intense curiosity filled him. Those officers, they never said…did that island have a name? Was it on the maps at all? No-one ever mentioned…ever said…

He glanced at the sleeping barman. It would certainly take more than someone sauntering round the bar to wake him up. More suspiciously, he looked round at the other man. He couldn't properly see his face. In fact, all he could see was the long, pale hand cupping his cheek. He seemed to be staring off into space, miles away.

Jack winced. Deep from the tunnels of his memory, he recalled someone else who sat like that, who always wore such a thoughtful expression on their face…causing them to absent-mindedly bash into trees…

Pushing the thought from his head, he firmly scraped his stool back, and walked to where he spotted the partition in the counter. With a hand that shook slightly, he lifted it up, resting it gently on the counter top, then daringly walked right past the bar tender to look at the map.

The glass was so dusty he had to blow on it, then grunted and blinked as it shot in a stinging spray into his eyes. Eyes watering, he looked over the smaller islands.

_Don't know why I'm looking anyway, _he thought to himself, _I don't know what I'm looking for. I can't even remember what part of the world it was in. _

There was, he noted with some amusement, a Rat island. Was that his island? He frowned, shaking his head. He was being stupid. Sighing and mentally scolding himself, he turned round to walk away – and came face to face with the bar tender.

"What d'you want?" A pair of bright brown eyes were regarding him suspiciously, and to his shock he realised it was a young face looking up at him though a tangle of curly black hair.

"I- I'm sorry," he stuttered nervously. The man at the bar was gazing at them both curiously, and the barman was giving him a shove.

"Go. This ain't the place for customers, mister. If you wanted a drink you coulda asked."

Jack, feeling thoroughly told off, hastily obeyed him, but something told him not to leave the bar entirely. Instead he sat down in his original place, and looked up at the man. He stood, frowning down at him, then picked up a filthy rag and started wiping down the surface of the counter.

Jack waited to be asked for his order. But it never came. The man simply carried on mechanically wiping, staring at him so intently Jack turned his head to check the mayor wasn't standing behind him.

"Can I have a pint of beer, please?" he asked, feeling quite discerned. With a start, the man flung down his cloth, and picked up a glass, but didn't start filling it.

A frown was creasing his brow now, a troubled frown that disturbed Jack thoroughly. Then suddenly the man spoke, in an odd, jerky voice.

"Why were you looking at my map, mister?"

Surprised at the question, Jack wondered if he should get up and leave. However, his mouth decided before he could, and before he knew it he had answered.

"I wanted to find an island on there."

The man leant forwards, hair tumbling forwards into his eyes. He didn't even blink.

"What island, mister?"

"I – I don't know its name," Jack answered, feeling rather as though he was being cross examined, "But I spent a considerable amount of time on it once. I was…trying to locate it."

The man's eyes were like bright coals under his dirty black hair "I wonder… tell me, do the words "_Kill the pig_" mean anything to you?"

Jack stood up so fast his stool was knocked over with a sharp _whack. _He stared at this funny, little man with his heart in his mouth. "How do you know about that?" he asked sharply, and the man chuckled, flipping his hair out his eyes.

And for the first time, Jack saw it, the stocky, short boy with a shadow of his madcap grin on his face. Dark circles ringed round once smooth eyes, and his flashes of memories poured before his eyes, unleashed.

"Sam?" he breathed, gripping the table very, very hard.

"Eric," the man corrected quietly, "Sam died. They say it was food poisoning." His eyes gleamed with a hollow, painful light. "From raw meat."

Jack stared at him, and vaguely felt his arms begin to shake. "No," he whispered, starting to tremble violently from head to toe, "No. Not from that. It wasn't – not my fault!"

Eric gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Kill the pig! Cut his throat, spill his blood, think I don't remember, _Jack_?"

Jack started to back away. He felt as though he was falling, literally falling and falling down into the darkest hole of oblivion. Black clouds were rolling in round the edges of his vision.

_Flash. _A pair of shockingly identical boys were grinning up at him, boisterous, obedient…

_Flash. _Mirror image boys were sitting together, tied back to back, identical expressions of terror on their faces…

_Flash. _Samneric were running side by side, a single unit of efficiency, rounding up a squealing, bucking sow…

The bar and its horrific bar man snapped back into his view, and without another word Jack turned and ran, sobbing, almost smashing his way through the door in his desperation to get out.

Eric gazed after him with deadened eyes, not one feeling of regret in his soul. That man had killed his other half, his twin. He would deserve everything he got.

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